


Selfish Little Feather-Duster

by orphan_account



Series: I'm old, bitter, and tired. [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Yeah mostly michael, and sam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Past sneered, "What makes you think we'll allow meddling of this magnitude?"-Or: Michael is bitter and a thousand years of sharing a headspace with Dean Winchester didn't do him any favors.





	Selfish Little Feather-Duster

**Author's Note:**

> Look at what I did instead of studying for my quiz tomorrow. I'm doomed.

A thousand years passed since the battle between Lucifer and Michael, and Earth was a paradise. People who were worthy lived in individual spaces of their own where everything was perfect until they died and ascended to Heaven. Sinners were running around as vessels for angels who purged the world left and right from Eve’s monstrous children. They should have been done with it, but some idiotic human woman who escaped her space opened purgatory with the hopes that Eve would escape and combat the angels.

 

She didn’t succeed, Eve wasn’t freed, but a new million of her children were.

 

In Heaven’s throne room where the seraphs used to sing praises sat an empty throne. Before it was the first of all angels, the Viceroy of Heaven, the Champion of the apocalypse. The seraphs had long gone to fight with their brothers and sisters, purging the earth and, when they got to it, Hell and Purgatory. Of course there had to be lengthy consideration on the issue of opening Purgatory. Eve would be freed along with the leviathan, and the last time they locked them in, there were four archangels and God himself. Now it was just Michael, Raphael, and a missing Father.

 

It left him with an unexpected empty feeling.

 

“Our Father, who aren’t in Heaven,” it hadn’t been a good day or a good one thousand years, either. Michael had expected Father to come home after millennia to stop him and Lucifer from razing the earth, but the eldest angel was sorely disappointed. Even after Michael pulled his sword from Lucifer’s true vessel and the seraphs sang, Father was nowhere, and Michael had only started getting more and more creative with his prayers ever since. “ _Holied_ be thy name, and though _your_ _kingdom_ has already come, you’re _still not here_.”

 

Raphael told him long ago to stop trying. But Michael didn’t listen. He’d been praying since the imprint of Lucifer’s wings burnt itself onto the grass, and long before that Joshua had told him in passing that Father was no longer listening. Michael hissed then, “Since I am His will, I’m no longer listening either.” And he left the angel standing in the middle of the cemetery where the ashes of Lucifer’s true vessel were buried.

 

(He stopped listening millennia ago, but not that he’d ever admit that.)

 

(Who is ‘He’, anyway? Michael or Father?)

 

“Where are you?” he asked, for the nth time. “Everything is not what I thought it would be,” bitterness crept in his tone, “It’s not what _you promised_ it would be. And you’re not here, you said that you’d give me what was lost if I did everything you asked.” Michael did, and he did so much more.

 

But where was his Father now?

 

.

 

 _This isn’t what I wanted_ . The first of the angels looked at the carnage the recent purging brought on. Death passed by earlier even though he had no reason to be there. Michael looked away to avoid seeing the disappointment on his face. Turning his head away from the flames rising to the sky, Michael thought once again, _this isn’t what I wanted._

 

.

 

“What do you want then, Michael?” Sam Winchester asked. His personal heaven was Robert Singer’s home, filled with memories of the old hunter, his brother, his girlfriend Jessica and oddly enough, Castiel. It was funny how Sam Winchester held a person - or angel, in this case - who had been around for such a small amount of time in such high value.

 

“I’m not sure,” he replied, watching idly while the illusion-Dean Winchester bickered with the illusion-Robert Singer over something or another. Michael wasn’t paying much attention to them. “But it wasn’t this.”

 

There was a sigh from his left and then a sudden clink, the sound of a canned bottle being placed on a glass table. Sam had placed a beer on the table. Michael eyed it distastefully.

 

“Dean loved these,” the boy (and to Michael, who was older than the solar system itself, Sam Winchester was only a boy) said with a shrug, “It’s hard to remember that you’re not really Dean when you come in here wearing his face.”

 

Michael said nothing. Sam continued to talk, “Like how I often forget that the Dean here isn’t really Dean.” Because Dean was still pit deep in his own mind while Michael walked around in his body. “I only ever remember when you drop by- speaking of which, what’s with the daily visits?”

 

Michael visited for a day every month. At first Sam had screamed, raged, threatened to rip him apart but what could a soul really do in Heaven to an archangel? Eventually the rage abated. Not completely, never completely, because Sam would never forgive him for all he had done, but enough that the boy only used a minimal of scathing remarks.

 

“That’s the sixtieth time you’ve asked in a thousand years.” Michael said dryly. “Well, you never answered me the last fifty-nine times.” Sam retorted.

 

“That’s true,” then, with a shrug - an action that felt all too natural - he said, “Perhaps I have a bad idea.”

 

Sam paused, raised an eyebrow, and Michael continued, “And I’d like to...apologize.” For killing him or for wearing his brother like a suit, or for isolating him from other souls, Michael wasn’t really sure what he was apologizing for. He wasn’t sure of many things these days.

 

Silence, and then in a voice dripping with loathing, the younger Winchester brother replied, “I’ll never forgive you.”

 

Michael nodded. The boy was no longer looking at him. The first of the angels took that as his cue to leave.

 

.

 

Raphael was in the heaven of some nobleman, watching him play with his children, all of which died before the age of twelve. He stood under a fig tree, face expressionless, and Michael flew down to stand beside him.

 

“I hate you,” Raphael said suddenly, bitterly, and Michael knew then that Raphael already had an inkling about what he was about to do. Raphael was wearing his first vessel, a little dark-skinned boy around the age of thirteen. Michael glanced at the younger archangel. The vessel’s face betrayed nothing, but Raphael’s wings were bristling with indignation, anger, and the underlying worry Michael has been seeing for far too long.

 

“I apologize, brother.” There was nothing else to say other than sorry. _Sorry for doubting, for missing everything, for not wanting what the victory against the devil brought, after all the work that you put in releasing him in the first place._

 

“Why?” There was a sudden crack of lightning and the heaven of the soul faded away as Michael transported himself and the other archangel to the road that connected all of Heaven. “Why would you throw all of this away? After all we’ve done to get here!”

 

“Don’t tell me that this paradise sits well with you, Raphael.”

 

Stubbornly, the other angel turned and flew away. Michael tried to get the horrible ache from his borrowed body’s heart to fade, but the distant silhouette of his younger brother only made it worse.

 

.

 

“Selfish child,” the Past sneered, “What makes you think we’ll allow meddling of this magnitude?”

 

“You’re going to undo all our work,” the Present added, sounding so incredibly like Raphael that it hurt, and the Future said, “And you shall render us irrelevant if you shall carry this out.”

 

“You won’t be,” he replied. “And I will do anything.”

 

The Future grinned with all too many teeth, “Lying, selfish little angel, and they call your brother the _father of lies_. But it really was you all along, was it not? Are you truly willing to do anything? Or are you just hoping for another chance to right your wrongs?”

 

“Or, you know, make things even worse,” the Present offhandedly commented.

 

The Past exchanged looks with the Present, and eventually she sighed. “Unbelievable.” And Michael knew then that he won.

 

.

 

Sometime in April, 1954, a tree grew overnight. In December 5, 1966, Mary Campbell climbed it in an effort to hide from her father, who she ditched when he spoke about bringing her along to hunt a wendigo. Not five minutes later, a blinding light emanated from the tree and she fell, but not one bone was broken upon landing, and Michael laughed hysterically into the night while in the body of a twelve-year-old.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now, idk, probably gonna add more to this. But in a series form. Maybe.


End file.
